So I was pregnant with my second child, fresh out-of-jail, on bond. I was revoked three times on the same charge and I honestly do not remember which revocation, out of the three, in which this incident occurred.

I know I was at least four months pregnant, because my son had already started kicking…and I didn’t like it, cause it made me feel guilty as fuck.

HEY, YOU GUYS IN YOUR BLACK ROBES NEED TO GTFO, NOW….I am bearing my soul, I have already been judged, and I don’t need nor do I want your opinion. It’s over, and it is what IT FUCKING IS.

I was living with my fetus’s father, at the time. The fetus’s father did not bond me out of the Parish prison. Another fellow bonded me out and I met him for the first time after he had already signed a property on his house and the Parish Prison released me.

After I was released, I walked home hand-in-hand with Joey, the man I’d never met, yet just signed a fifty-thousand dollar property bond, to get me out of jail.

I don’t know how the judicial system where you live is run, but where I live, if you are bonded out of Parish Prison, you must appear at the courthouse at 7 a.m. the following morning, no excuses, unless it’s a weekend.

I suppose I was released on a Tuesday or a Wednesday or a Thursday or a Monday….I know it wasn’t a Friday, because it was dark by the time I got “home” and I had to be back at District Court WHEN?

Nevertheless, I was rescued, and I did manage to make it to court the next morning. I was put in Drug Court, and received my color. My color was pink. I had to call a number to an automated line at the courthouse everyday which would tell me what color had been chosen for that day. If my color was chosen I had until 5 pm to get my ass to district court for a piss test. My god, it was literally a few weeks before they called “pink”. I never knew ‘da people’ knew so many goddamn colors.

So during that 3 or 4 weeks, before pink got called, I ended up at Tricky Ricky’s house.

Tricky Ricky was in and out of prison more than me and he was doing real time, like D.O.C. Me, I never got to D.O.C., but I did spend several months in the parish prison before my son was right about to pop out and I had no choice but to take the plea bargain, or wait for a trial while the court system put my son in foster care.

I am a convicted felon.

Back to before pink….

I was on my second day at Ricky and Priscilla’s house. They lived very close to my son’s father, at the time. I think we were probably near our last bag of dope when Ricky scored some Oxycontin. Back then, there were no Roxies, or Opana, or all that shit there is now. There were Oxy’s, yellows (dilaudid) , greys (morphine) and heroin, but nobody where I live was doing heroine back then and if they were, they started in New Orleans, and they didn’t fuck around with us.

After Ricky got the Oxy he came in the room and asked me if I wanted to shoot a speedball. I politely declined because I knew my constituency does not uphold opiates well, no matter what form they come, laced in a pile of coke, or not.

When I declined Ricky became offended, I don’t know why because it only meant more dope for him, and he argued with me about whether or not the speedball would make me sick.

I argued that it would definitely make me sick. I had been with my best friend, Nat, whom Ricky knew, too many times, watching her shoot dilaudid and the two times I did shoot a part of a yellow with her, I became viciously ill.

Fuck that shit….haha…she used to tell me, “everyone throws up the first time”, and I always thought, “well why would you do it twice?”…I can’t stand to throw up…blah.

So, in my mind, the conversation with Ricky was over. But Ricky kept pestering me. I did not want to shoot a fucking speedball but he kept on pestering me, telling me I was wrong, that it was the best feeling in the world and I would totally not puke.

Ricky finally broke me. Out of ABSOLUTELY NOTHING but SHEER FUCKING MEANNESS AND AGGRAVATION, I shot the goddamn speedball.

Ricky’s wife, Priscilla, held my hair for the next four hours as I wretched so violently that I pissed myself…and I’m glad I only ate every few days…

It had been a really long night….I mean, this night had been like 96 hours long.

The night started well, and I don’t remember exactly how, except to say it started with a “BANG”, but then that’s how all of my good nights (and days) started.

I was at the end of the run and as much as I hated to admit it, the shit was done.

Rocky was being a bastard and only buying crack and the crack he would get was nothing but SHIT.

It was so horrible, bleach couldn’t break that shit down, much less, vinegar.

BLAH.

He was sharing a little of the dope that he had, but since I was a junkie and only wanted to shoot it, I was having to reduce the crack-cocaine back to its former self, and it took a whole bunch of that shitty ass crack to make anything worth shooting.

The second to last 40 Rocky got was so bad that it ruined my rig. My needle was totally clogged and totally fucked, and wouldn’t you know that as soon as my last syringe was destroyed an 11th hour prayer was answered, in the form of straight powder.

When he finished smoking the 40 of shitty crack he just bought, Rocky wanted ‘one more’ and had to purchase it from another dope man.

Most of Rocky’s dopemen delivered. Many of the dope sellers in Mall City, one of the most notorious Baton Rouge hoods, which was situated right across the main highway from the semi-ritzy neighborhood Rocky lived in, knew that Rocky was big-ballin, shot callin, on the 19th of every month. Honestly, Rocky really was big ballin every 19th.

I gotta give him that.

However, this night must have been around the tenth of the month, because there was no ballin and no shot callin, going on there, except by me, and like I said, my rig just got clogged.

The problem was that now I had no rig and this dopeman Rocky just called brought powder.

Wow. Um…it was good powder, too. I was furious. Absolutely fucking furious.

As soon as the dopeman left, Rocky ran to the kitchen to grab a spoon, some water and some baking soda. I sat sweetly and patiently in the striped wingback chair which sat adjacent to Rocky’s king size four poster bed and nightstand.

I sat there like a good little girl, and waited patiently.

Rocky returned to his bedroom and set about to cook him some crack. He dropped a load of powder, worth about twenty dollars, onto the spoon, added a little water and a little baking soda and held the spoon up in his right hand, while he held the flame from his lighter, under the spoon, in his left hand.

It only took a couple of seconds and the water in the spoon was boiling and bubbling. Rocky moved the fire around the bottom of the spoon for a few more seconds and then, ‘VOILA’…..CRACK.

Rocky then used the end of a safety pin and pulled up the oily part that was now localized in the middle of the watery spoon, bubbling. When he got enough dope on the end of the pin to make a good hit, he put it on the end of his crack pipe and lighted the fire again.

Crack sizzles when you first hit the rock, and that’s what I heard before I saw Rocky’s face get red. He then exhaled more smoke than Snoop Dogg in any of his videos.

The difference was the smoke and the way it smelled. I hate the way crack smells.

Yuck.

Now that Rocky was high though, it was my turn to get my hit. I went ahead and asked him for a big portion. I told him I would not ask him for anymore if he just went ahead and gave all, right then, of what he would have given me, anyway.

He did as I asked, but there was still the problem of no syringe, and that was a bitch cause I could tell by the smell and by the way the shit cooked down that it was some good dope.

Still, he gave me my portion and I took and immediately hid it in Rocky’s house, grabbed my keys, and left.

I had to get a needle.

I don’t know about where you live, but where I live, it’s not illegal to sell syringes to non-diabetics, but it is the policy of most every store to refuse to sell needles to non-diabetics.

This one of THE MOST TRIFLING ASS, NO GOOD, PIECE OF FUCKING SHIT STORE POLICIES EVER THOUGHT UP BY A BOARD OF DIRECTORS….who don’t know shit about life.

Fuck them and fuck their store policies.

I went to two different Walgreens locations and was immediately turned away.

Now I was really pissed. I had some good dope to do and these mothafuckas weren’t coming off any rigs.

Since it was almost four in the morning, there weren’t very many stores open. I had already tried the two Walgreens and there was no way I was going to Wal-Mart. That would be a definite “no”.

The only store left was Rite Aid and I knew they were going to be cocksuckers about it, too.

I pulled into their parking lot, put on my game-face and walked into the store.

It was so bright and empty at 4 A.M. YIKES. ARGGHHHH…..I hated all those bright lights piercing a hole through my soul.

I went to the pharmacy, which was open 24 hours. This particular Rite Aid was the only location with the 24-hour pharmacy. I went straight to the “pick-up” window and there was a pharmacist there, just ready to wait on me.

“I need a pack of U-100 syringes, please”, I said.

The pharmacist replied, “ok, have you filled with us before?”

I said, “no, ma’am, my family and I are here for a small vacation and the airport lost one of our bags. My mother is diabetic and her syringes were in the bag that we didn’t get.”

She said, “I’m sorry, but you’ll need a ‘diabetic card’, for me to sell you the syringes.”

I said, “LOOK BITCH, IF YOU DON’T SELL ME A BAG OF NEEDLES, I WILL GO FIND ONE IN THE DUMPSTER, USE IT, THEN FIND EVERYONE IN YOUR FAMILY AND FUCK THEM.”

The pharmacist replied, “Ok, I will sell you these, but don’t ever come in my store again.”

If it’s true that before we, as humans, incarnate, we get to pick our own fate, then I must have been making an egoic bet with some other mf up there when I picked mine…and maybe this statement is SUPER-GRANDIOSE to some and blasphemous to others, but Jesus was making the same kinda bets when he picked his, too….I spose he won his bet.

There was a time, not that long ago, when I loved my daddy more than words could say. I absolutely idolized my father when I was a child. To me, he hung the moon and the stars. I truly believed he was the smartest man on the planet. He was god to me.

All I ever wanted from daddy was his love, affection and approval. I never received any of those things from him, yet I kept on loving him.

Daddy would always belittle me and tell me how ugly I was, he told me, repeatedly, that I should use my head for something besides a hat rack. Daddy always made fun of my nose and called me “ski snoot”, whatever that means, and would tell me that I got my nose from my great-grandfather on my mother’s side, even though clearly, and unfortunately, I have my father’s nose. It’s undeniable. The thing he used to say to me the most was , “Son, if you had a brain, you’d be dangerous”.

Yes, my father called me “son’. He also referred to me as ,”boy”, all the time, and I do mean ALL THE TIME.

As I look back, I remember how I never really got angry or upset about the things he would say to me. When I got older, and I’d mention to my friends about how he always called me ‘son’, and they always laughed and thought it was so weird, and I suppose it was. I never thought it was that weird, back then, though. I loved him no matter what ugly thing he said to me, and when people would question it, I would always take up for daddy saying, “that’s just my daddy’s way of saying he loves me”….and I believed it.

In school, I was always a good student. I may not have applied myself like I should have, but I still always received good grades. I was always in the upper level english and reading classes. In high school, I was allowed into the ‘Honors English’ program and remained all four years. I was an honor graduate with a pretty high GPA.

However, no matter how hard I tried, no matter what I did, nothing I did was ever good enough for my dad. Nothing.

I remember writing papers for my english class and feeling so excited about what I produced and running into the living room, where daddy was always sitting on the couch, watching t.v., and asking him to read whatever it was that I had written. Most of the time, he would tell me to show it to him later or I would have to sit and wait for a commercial before he even noticed I was standing there.

“Daddy, I wrote this essay, will you look over it for me?”, I would ask, my eyes twinkling with certain knowledge that THIS TIME I wrote something that would make him proud of me.

When he would finally take time to look at my work, his criticism would start with the first sentence. He always ended up telling me what I wrote was fucking garbage and he would get his pencil and cross words out and write in new ones. He would take out whole sentences or paragraphs, and that was on a good day. But mostly he would just tell me it was shit and to start over and re-write everything.

I would go back to my room, with my heart now located somewhere in my lower intestine. I never re-wrote anything, I would just turn it in the way I wrote it before I showed it to my daddy and I usually received an “A”.

Archives

k

I feel creative energy jingling my private parts.
I like to write and I also hate to write. I am getting over hating it now that I am starting to understand that I was lied to as a child and I actually do possess a brain that functions, as well as a pretty fair amount of other desirable traits.
My own acceptation of the inherent knowledge and talent I possess took a long time for me to understand and believe. I'm still not there yet, and neither are my writing skills. However, I heard many years ago, from a source which I cannot recall, that one can not expect to improve upon something which one does not practice.
Let the practice begin!
I AM:
Charming, witty, funny, dreamy, screamy, honest, angelic, demonic, intuitive, fanciful, over-reactive, angry, sweet, ex-dope fiend, petulant, unsane, genius, idiotic, truthful to a fault, eiditic memory, beautiful, sad, melancholy, aloof, clingy, maniacal, suicidal, dancing, old-fashioned, fuckin weird, sesquipedalian, exuberant, anxious, bipolar, fertile yet sterile, ambiguous, impulsive, impetuous, artistic, conspiracy enthusiast, moody, non-trusting, musical, flighty, drinks like a machine, fear of rejection, prone to isolation, fearless, fearful, analytical, conservative yet liberal, irrational, enigmatic, low self-esteem projecting high self-esteem, positivity cheerleader for others, worried yet carelessly optimistic, sexy, sometimes argumentative, mentalist, book-lover, procrastinator, initiate, loving, people-watcher, people-pleaser, numb, first-class twerker, major depressive, feelings denier, possibly some kind of schizo, definitely borderline, possibly bipolar, drawn to the esoteric like a moth to a flame, ferocious, tender, mother, fierce, strong yet so very weak, prone to addictions, mediator and meditator, introvert, healer, lover and a fucking fighter....a paradox personified.

I lived with and was married to a female malignant narcissist for 12 years who has BPD and HPD. I endured significant trauma, gas lighting, degrading comments and was left feeling worthless. Now I'm out, living with C-PTSD and watching my kids be treated like textbook Golden Child and Scapegoat children. My daily struggle to get them the hell away from her claws. Have questions, comments, advice? Ask, tell, share. I am here to recover.